


strange place

by sinead



Series: spy!sync [4]
Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spy, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinead/pseuds/sinead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mission 'npossible: guns, explosions, disguises, sex, and if I could arrange for it, there'd be cheesy Lalo Schifrin theme music, too.</p><p>(Fourth story in a series with no consecutive time line.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	strange place

It was a strange place, he thought. The sky was a wash of tender pink and blue, and the puffy clouds were scalloped with gold. There were ducks on the lake behind the firing range. No one ever shot at the ducks.

Chris stood on the balcony of his quarters, staring across the Estate grounds in the direction of the setting sun. He wondered idly how a pack of spooks like the IMF had ended up on the flat, marshy ground of central Florida, among the tourists and the retirees and the farmers. Hiding in plain sight, he supposed. One day, he would have to ask Johnny.

The fading light had gilded the gravel path across the lawn. The sun set fast here, at this latitude, and as he watched, the path became a ghostly pale streak. As the light changed, it began to rain, a soft patter on the roof and in the palmettos. Chris kept peering into the subtropical twilight for a while longer, ignoring the occasional drops that fell on him, slanting under the eaves. When he suddenly turned and went inside, the motion of the approaching figure on the path was almost invisible. There was a steady crunch of thudding feet on the gravel. Chris sat on the couch in front of the fire, and picked up a dossier. He didn't look up when the sounds changed from footsteps on gravel to footsteps running up the stairs, but his knee beneath the manila folder bounced in perfect synchronization.

There were breaths in the doorway, light and quick. Chris thought to himself, that sounds better than last week, and made himself wait another moment before looking up.

"Hey, Jup," he said casually. "How was it tonight?"

Justin was silhouetted in the strong light from the hallway as he bent over to take off his shoes. His t-shirt, damp with sweat and rain, clung to his ribs and arms. When he straightened, Chris could see the too sharp edge of his cheekbone. "Good," he said. "Felt pretty good." Aspirant pneumonia, the med staff had called it. One of the things his captors had tried when he wouldn't talk was to hold his head under water. It was only after tactics like that hadn't produced the desired results that they started with the drugs.

Justin staggered slightly, pulling off his socks, and recovered himself. He looked up to catch Chris watching, and shrugged. In an elaborately disinterested voice he remarked, "do you suppose there are any clean towels?"

"Only if you did laundry," Chris replied, and looked down again at the dossier. "I've been in briefings all day."

"Fuck, I forgot." Chris could hear the rueful grin, and then his voice, floating back as he retreated down the hall, "I'll just have to use yours, then."

"Touch my towel and I'll kick your ass." But Justin had started the shower, and if he replied, Chris couldn't hear it, although he listened. He listened for the sound of coughing, too, but it didn't come.

Running was part of Justin's reconditioning program. Some coughing was to be expected, or so Lonnie had told him when Chris had cornered him in the gym, saying, "what the fuck--?" Lonnie had also told him, "you do your thing and let me do mine, okay, Kirkpatrick?" Then his voice had softened a bit, and he had thumped Chris on the shoulder with an enormous fist. "Ain't gonna let nothin' hurt him."

Justin came in the room, wearing a pair of sweats with ripped knees. He had a towel--Chris' towel--slung around his shoulders, and each curl was bronzed and sleek with water. He folded the towel beneath his head and stretched out on the floor in front of the fireplace. Chris could see a flash of teeth as he yawned, and for a moment, he simply looked like a carefree boy. Then he closed his eyes and muttered, "Chris."

Chris felt a little internal lurch, but only said, "hmm?"

"Last night." Justin didn't look at him, but stared into the fire. "I just," he paused and then rushed on, "wanted to say thanks, I guess, because I really did sleep better." He drew a breath, and whispered, "with you." He shivered once.

"C'mere," Chris said, but then he moved himself, pulling the ottoman over to sit on and tugging Justin up to lean back against his knees. Chris picked up the towel and began to rub his hair. He forced himself not to look at the firelight washing over the hard planes of Justin's chest and stomach, or the long bare feet, toes clenching into the nap of the rug. Instead, he concentrated on the memory of Justin's strangled cries in the depths of his nightmare. When Chris had climbed into the bed to try and wake him gently, Justin had clung to him with terrified, limpet-like strength, so that Chris could do nothing but stroke his back and hum. They hadn't talked, but eventually, they had slept, and there were no more nightmares for the rest of the night.

They needed to talk about it now, though. Chris needed to remind him about PTSD, and encourage him to schedule an extra session with the staff shrink. He tugged gently on Justin's hair, until Justin tipped his head back, regarding him with wary eyes.

"Tonight," Chris began. Justin didn't move or speak, but Chris could see the relief in the kid as he finished, "my bed is bigger."


End file.
